The leader Ware, with anger in his soul,
While his limbs tremble, and his eyeballs roll,
“D—n!” cried, “this insults too imposing,
Shall we bear this, ye scraping sons of Rosin?”
The puffy Parke, who never was a starter,
Said, “In this cause I wish to die a Martyr!”
Hawtin, with face inflated like a crumpet,
“Lord bless us,” said, and dropp’d his brazen trumpet.
And smirking Davy, with his powder’d pate,
Plump’d snug upon his seat and grinn’d in state.